


sunset soon forgotten

by mattmurdck



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Masturbation, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:43:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattmurdck/pseuds/mattmurdck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles can't sleep, and overhears something he shouldn't have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sunset soon forgotten

_Charles_.

It's too hot – it's too bloody hot. The heat is a heavy presence that bears down around the quieting mansion, a living, writhing, _breathing_ thing that slips between the halls and under doors, smothering everyone inside. Charles Xavier is not its first victim and he gives in to the summer's dominance, shedding his clothes with resignation, sprawled out on his too-big bed with limbs splayed to try and cool the sweat beading on his chest. It is the first few moments of what promises to be a long, sleepless, night.

_Gott, mein Gott – **Charles**._

The voice is not his own, familiar but foreign in the confines of his mind. In the deafening silence of Charles' room it is like a thunder, clear as the clang of iron and steel. Instantly, the telepath places the owner to the wayward, overheard thought; just across the hall is the room occupied by his best friend, his newest confidante: Erik. Erik, the strong survivor; Erik, the impenetrable monolith of a mutant, of a man. Erik, the one mind he very rarely dares to enter, the one he only skirts around, feeling the cliffs of the great chasm of such a tortured psyche, brushing the frayed edges of scorched memories. When they first met, Xavier had delved fully into that mind, had gotten lost in the minefield of jagged spears and steel barriers that protected his most sacred of memories. Every person's mind has a different feeling, a different sense attributed to it.

Raven's mind sounds like the ripple of wings, a smooth transition.

Erik's tastes like the metallic tang of blood.

_Please – please –_

Even now, as he lay in his bed, Charles can taste it. It wells against the back of his mouth, that hint of iron, and when he closes his eyes, it blooms like a flower against his tongue. His friend's mind is forever closed off to him, guarded by mental sentries that threatened to slice him open at any moment, but now – _now_ – he is open, his mind spread out just as widely as Charles' body, refusing to fight the heat, accepting the heady and suffocating warmth. It is not permission but it is an offering, perhaps unconscious, altogether tantalizing. Guilt tugs the telepath's mouth into a grimace but he only floats around the edges, his powers a hummingbird in flight, silent and light. Any other day, he could resist the urge, would be pulled back by his own innate sense of morality, but today, to _night_ –

_Ich will dich ficken. Bitte, bitte._

He doesn't need to know German to understand the meaning behind the words, and Charles' body hardens like steel. His heart hammers like a trapped bird against the cage of his ribs and the telepath swallows, as if that would bring speech back to him, as if that would make him able to slip away from this dangerous situation without a single sound. But he knows better, knows that this is one thing he can't lie to himself about; Erik Lehnsherr is in the room beside him and his thoughts are screaming for release just as demandingly as his body. Chasing away that last shred of guilt and self-dignity, Charles closes his eyes, concentrates on that presence crying out to be known, and _feels._

He can feel it, every last bit of it – but it is not his pleasure. It is not his cock that is longer, leaner, cut; it is not his hand that is twisted around its base, his thumb that flicks away the pearl of pre-ejaculate from its tip. It is the left hand – Charles masturbates with his right – and along the left wrist, black numbers are shadows in the darkness, a memory imprinted on flesh. The room is sparser than his own, less decorated; the open windows do not have moonlight cast upon them. Low noises – foreign to his ears but so, so perfect – are quiet in the heat, muffled behind teeth against lip, shamed whimpers filled with longing. A naked body, like some obscene Adonis, is spread out across a large bed, hips arching into that ruthless hand. And underneath it all, lying below all the physicality of the moment, a current of desire, of _want_ , of _need_ , of _Charles_.

That is the word that's repeated in Erik's mind, screaming mentally, deafeningly loud: _Charles Charles Charles_. He frames it with bookends of German expletives, of English promises, of declarations in whispers without a language but still understood. It is reverent, possessive, personal, wanton. It is everything that Erik hides during the day beneath a mask of anger or indifference.

In his own bed, Charles can't bear to separate the link, slipping out just enough to feel his own hand, now wrapped securely around his erection, to hear his own breath caught in between heaving lungs. Heat warms his cheeks and his skin, sweat drips from his temples, and he can still feel it. To be in another person's mind is not unlike sharing their body; for a moment, he forgets where his groans end and Erik's begin, ignores the fact that Erik is his best friend and he shouldn't be thinking _Please, just do it, fuck me_ , can't distinguish whether the hand, too large and calloused and warm, gripping him is reality or imagination. In the end, it doesn't matter.

Maybe it's a mistake, since Charles can't seem to keep his brain quiet, can't help but thinking aloud the name on his lips: “Erik.” _Erik_. Maybe he can hear the words, but if he does, it doesn't stop the German from pumping his hand harder, from responding in turn. Maybe he even realizes that the voice in his head is not his imagination, is actually Charles feeling with him, _in_ him, sharing in the pleasure and the desire and the too-hot, suffocating need that pulls them together like magnetic poles.

Maybe in the morning, realization would rise with the dawn and Erik would leave.

But Xavier can't bring himself to think of that, not right now, not when they are both standing hand in hand on a precipice, ready to dive. A thumb, he doesn't know whose, twists beneath his sensitive head and they both gasp, bodies strung tight as bows for a second, for two – and when they come, they come together. It's blinding for the first time in a long time, and it steals Charles' breath out of his lungs. Strings of sticky cream spatter into his fist and he groans Erik's name into the darkness of his room. It hangs there, an echo, and through their mental connection he can hear his own name whispered, a sigh, a prayer.

Despite the heat, tiredness washes over Charles like water, and it's with eyes half-lidded that he lifts his hand and licks the ejaculate from his sticky palm. In a sudden whim, he allows this image to stream between them, a portrait of an obscene Botticelli angel, lips ripe as roses and glistening with moisture not from saliva. By presenting his presence so obviously, openly, the telepath realizes that he has made a line in the sand and there is no going back over it. It's daring; it could quite possibly end in disaster. But his body is thrumming with endorphins and all he can hear is his name being chanted, over and over, into the darkness, and he thinks he's made the right choice.

He can't see it, but he can feel Erik's surprise. With a smile, the younger thinks: _Good night, Erik_.

They could deal with the implications in the morning, could work out whatever may come. So to speak.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little bitty ficlet. No beta. Also first time writing Charles, woops.


End file.
